


12 Monkeys Theme Week - Day 4 - Scars

by pirategirljack



Category: 12 Monkeys (TV)
Genre: 12 Monkeys Theme Week, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirategirljack/pseuds/pirategirljack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassie takes a look at Cole's scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12 Monkeys Theme Week - Day 4 - Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally part of 12 Monkeys Theme Week:  
> http://samiholloway.tumblr.com/post/115936749682/12-monkeys-theme-week-day-4-casserole-2

Cole was back, and this time he was as whole as he was when he’d left only a few days ago. It was ridiculous that him coming back in only three days, covered in scabs, rather than weeks later and half dead, was a blessing, but she’d take what she could get when it came to Cole. Anything was better than nothing. And nothing was too much of a possibility.

He moved stiffly, but she didn’t have to tell him to take his shirt off so she could get at the bandages, he just did, and stood before her, watching her finish prepping the bandages, snipping the tape, opening the ointment. She didn’t have to be precise–this wasn’t a life or death situation, this time–but today he was wearing the red-and-grey shirt she’d always liked on him, and now he was watching her closely, shirtless, not dying, very close…

Cassie pulled off his bandages, saw that the wound was healing up well enough, and recovered it with a smaller pad of gauze. Without the wide wrap, though, she could see all the bruises, purple and blue and turning green along the edges. One still looked like a fist. Her fingers trailed over his side of their own accord, checking for lumps or damage, but too lightly. He caught his breath a little.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not much.”

Silence of a new kind. Her hand was still on his side. She chanced a glance at his face, and he was still watching her, waiting. Seeing what she would do.

She should tell him to put his shirt back on, pat him on his shoulder and tell him he’s doing fine and get to work. Instead, she ran her hand, flat against his skin, over his chest, and all the scars there.

“Where did these come from?”

“Bullets.”

She laughed, some of the tension breaking, and turned it into a scoff and a sardonic look in the eye. “In what context?”

“A few years ago, before Project Splinter. Had a close run-in with some scavs. Almost died–I didn’t heal a fast as I do now.”

“And this?”

“Knife. That old lady.”

“This one? Almost in the same place?”

“Different knife. We were staying with some refugees, and one of them tried to knife me in my sleep.”

She didn’t ask what happened to that refugee. She didn’t want to know. “This one?” His shoulder. Still pink, but well healed.

“Your boyfriend Aaron.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, a little too quickly.

He covered her hand and the scar both with his callused fingers. “That’s good to hear,” he said in that way where it sounded mild and meant volumes. Her heart stuttered.

“And this one?” A narrow line on his neck, disappearing into his scruff.

“Sharp wire, when I was maybe seventeen. We were breaking into a warehouse, looking for food.”

“And this?” A line diagonal across his chin.

He smiled, just a little. “Fell off my bike when I was six. Went right over the handlebars.”

She laughed again, and their eyes met. He was so close. She could see the different colors in his eyes.

“The worse one is here,” he said, pulling her hand to the middle of his chest, over his heart. Leaving his hand there on top of hers. “That one’s from losing you. That one won’t let me do it again.”

He ran his hand up her arm, gently, from her wrist to her shoulder, and she trembled, from the warmth, from the closeness, from the soft, open look on his face.

“And your skin’s smooth,” he said, running that hand over her shoulder, pushing the narrow strap of her tank top out of his view. He sort of folded up, then, lowering his head and looping his arms around her, not tightly or possessively, but like he just wanted to be near her. “Not a scar anywhere. I’ve never seen skin so smooth,” he said into the crook of her neck.

And then, light as a feather, he kissed her right where her collarbone joined her shoulder.

Everything changed. All at once, like there’d been a sheet of glass between them and they’d come through it easily, without even shattering it. His arm tightened around her waist, and her arms laced up around his neck.

“Sometimes I worry you’re not real,” he said, barely a whisper. His fingers drifted from her shoulder to her cheek, and cradled her face like she was the most precious, most delicate thing he’s ever held.

She smiled. “I won’t break,” she said.

“I might,” he said.

“Nothing can break you.”

“You could. If you wanted to.” He said it like a fact–not a warning, not a fear, just a raw, honest truth, and he ghosted that same delicate, feather-light kiss over her lips. He pulled back, then, looking terrified, ready to run. She pulled him closer, still smiling, and kissed him back. When he pulled back this time, he was the one who smiled, finally, and swallowed the distance between them to kiss her properly.


End file.
